Windows to the Soul
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: Dean was wrong, all those years ago, because he and Sam ARE what they were, again, finally. It's about freakin' time. Tag to 11x16, "Safe House," partners with chrissie0707's "Windows of Opportunity."
**Windows to the Soul**

A/N: This originated as just a kind of drabble to explore Dean's headspace after 11x16, "Safe House". Then I read **chrissie0707's** _"Windows of Opportunity"_ , and its brilliance inspired this entire scene. So this partners Chrissie's fic, you should TOTALLY go read that, because it's amazing.

Enjoy!

* * *

" _I don't think that we can ever be what we were."_

He's not sure why he thinks of that moment, of all of them, as something feels ripped physically from his body, jolting him backward _hard_. A last ditch effort by the Soul Eater, probably, he realizes vaguely. After all, it isn't just the memory that hits him, but everything he'd been feeling back when he said it—betrayed, depressed, used by Sam and Cas and Heaven and Hell, worried sick about a now-paralyzed Bobby, so grief stricken he couldn't breathe, in so much pain he convinced himself he didn't care to try and stave it off enough to function. That gut-wrenching, chest-twisting agony chokes him for a moment—the monster's last attempt to keep him vulnerable as its dusty, _non-corporeal_ (Sam would be proud) fingers lose their grip on him—and then reality slots into place in an instant, and he's struggling to get vertical, Sam's hands are on him, and _oh_.

Oh it _hurts_.

He feels like he's been run over by a truck, but Sam's chest is solid and warm behind him, and his brother pats his shoulder twice, a bit harder than Dean's sore body appreciates, before laying a trembling hand on his head in something of an _oh god I thought I lost you_ embrace—all Sammy, that. It's nearly a chick-flick moment, and Dean _would_ say something, he really would, except he's too freaking sore and anyway he's trying to do better about opening up with Sam.

His silence has nothing at all to do with the fact that it's actually rather comforting, letting Sam hold him like this as he struggles to put himself back together again. Nothing at all.

It occurs to him that Sammy's speaking, his voice tight and quick with worry, and Dean's sorry for it even though he can't pull together the ability to answer.

"Dean—you good? You good? All right, I got you…"

He manages a groan, which at least convinces Sam he's okay—mostly—and then just lets the thumping of his brother's heart guide his own abused body back into some sort of rhythm.

It takes several breaths, but Sam doesn't let go until Dean taps his thigh twice— _"I'm good, Sammy, lemme up"—_ and he retreats. Perhaps not quite ready, Dean coughs back a moan as his palms hit the floor, his torso not up to holding him upright on its own just yet; but a few deep breaths later, he stands shakily, slowly.

 _Gettin' too old for this crap._

"Y'all right?" Sam asks, hand cupping his face where a livid mark is just beginning to bloom, and Dean pauses for a second. He takes in the trashed room, the rumpled state of his brother, his own aching limbs and back, and that strange feeling of _otherness_ he woke with that is slowly dissipating.

Something happened while he was in that nest. He knows instantly what—the Soul Eater stole his body, tried to stop Sam finishing the sigil—and the realization makes his blood run cold again.

He nods tightly, to answer Sam, waiting patiently a few paces away, and decides playing dumb is probably best. Openness and honesty are all well and good; but sometimes, you just don't need to poke at a wound, especially one as old and familiar as this one. He'll feel guilty for beating on Sam, Sam will say, "No Dean, it's okay, it wasn't you," but he'll argue it was _his_ knuckles that left those bruises, and Sam will feel guilty about him feeling guilty and it'll accomplish nothing at all except more guilt and tension.

Both of them are plenty full on both those counts, thanks.

"Man," he groans, twisting his back, only half for show. It pops satisfyingly, though he's going to have a hard time of it tomorrow. "Must've gone down harder than I thought when that son of a bitch grabbed me."

Sam, in a move that shocks Dean less every day, displays a true sense of maturity by not pushing him to talk about feelings and shit. "Must have."

Dean has to admire how they've finally grown into each other; or maybe, he thinks wryly, not so much _grown_ as _found their way back_. Things had been like this with Sam before Stanford—sure, Sam had been a whiny, angst-ridden teen, and Dean had been incorrigible and stubborn as a mule; but they'd been on the same wavelength just like they are now. Two halves of the same whole, Dean thinks, refusing to admit how the poetry of it makes him fight back a smile. They'd lost that during those four years apart, then almost had it back before their world shattered—Dad's death, then Sam's, then demons and Hell , Ruby and Lucifer, the Apocalypse, blood and Stull Cemetery, Sam with no soul, Sam with a soul but broken, Cas' betrayal, Bobby's death, Leviathan and Purgatory and the Trials and then Gadreel and the Mark—everything has been so massively screwed up for the past decade, they've lost their wavelength.

But like compasses, it don't matter how often or hard they're shaken, they always drift back to true north—each other—and Dean is happy to see it happen. For the first time in years, neither of them are under the influence of anything supernatural, neither are possessed or dying or mad with trauma. Sure, there's Amara, and she's freaking him out, but Dean finds that he doesn't mind sharing and caring with Sam so much as he expected to. Leaning on Sam, and trusting Sam to do what he knows he probably can't, isn't quite as hard as he thought it would be.

He _trusts_ Sam. That's what it boils down to, and even though he remembers telling his little brother he'd probably never trust him again, even though he remembers why he said it and isn't sorry—it was one of the more honest moments he and Sam had shared during that time period—he smiles, realizing he was wrong.

They've come full circle.

They banter a little as they tidy up as much as they can, and Dean tells Sam he saw Bobby in the nest, weird as that all was. Sam, ever the polite one, tries to wave to the neighbor—the Neighborhood Watch Lady—as they exit the house, but she just glares, and Dean doesn't have the energy to care. Theorizing about Bobby's presence gives him a headache, and judging by the look on his little brother's face, Sam too.

"Let's get drunk and not think about this ever again."

Sam chuckles his agreement, but mentions they should take care of the other Soul Eater in Tennessee first, and Dean sighs dramatically. It's more a hassle at this point than a true danger, now that they know for sure how to beat it, so he asserts, "Fine, but this time _you're_ going into the nest."

Sam laughs, but doesn't disagree, and Dean quirks a grin. Wasn't so long ago he'd have balked at even allowing Sam near the Nest, now he's coming off with lines like "Not it!" and "This time you're going in." Sam, to his credit, is taking it in stride; not letting Dean's confession of a few weeks ago cause him to treat Dean differently, as though he's weak or less than capable. He's not agreeing to go into danger in some ill-conceived attempt to keep Dean safe, and Dean's not yanking Sam out of the line of fire and throwing himself into it.

Maybe they're growing up, Dean thinks with a wry smile of his own.

His mild amusement is somewhat dampened a few minutes later when Sam asks him what else he saw in the Nest. He wonders whether to actually tell Sam, but figures the guy probably knows already anyway. It's not like his brother has any doubt how Dean feels about him.

"I saw you," he confesses. "Dead on the floor."

The words hurt to say, even now, after they've both died who-knows-how-many times; hurt to think about, and Dean clenches his jaw a little, but Sam _'humpf's_ as though amused. "What?" Dean asks.

"How messed up are our lives that you seeing a vision of dead me is actually kind of comforting?" Sam asks, grinning just a little.

Dean knows what he means, knows his little brother is telling him without actually _telling_ him, _"How twisted is it that I'm grateful that's what you saw because it means I'm still—after everything—important to you?"_ But the question leads Dean's thoughts down dark paths, and he's hard pressed to pretend amusement for Sammy this time.

"Yeah," he says instead, pulling Baby out onto the road and pointing her toward Tennessee while oldies play on the radio and Sam shifts beside him til he's comfortable.

The truth is, Sam's more important to him than ever. They're a team again, finally. A singular unit, like they were before everything, and Dean almost wishes there was a way for him to go back and convince himself that things wouldn't be so hard and horrible forever.

 _We're gonna be okay._


End file.
